


Keep Me Warm

by facade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Ambiguous Plot, F/M, M/M, Mature Content - Various, Multi, Narrative First Person Perspective
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 18:03:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6249967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facade/pseuds/facade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts as all great things do. It starts with a fall, with a crash, with a white flag, with a kiss. It starts with soft smiles and stolen glances, with paper hearts and written confessions. The space between: filled with laughter and tears, filled with love and hate, with fucking and fighting, with somethings and nothings, filled with everything: words, thoughts, feelings -- them. It starts with a fall. It starts with a crash. It starts with a white flag, with a kiss. It ends with a whispered promise, with a lie. A beautiful lie neither of us ever meant to tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Me Warm

They’re laughing. Not within sight but their voices… Their voices are distinct, are easy to separate from the music and the aggravating sounds of everyone who isn’t them, and as a moth to the flame or worse – as a drunk to the bar on a Thirsty Thursday – I find myself drawn to them. There isn’t a club-goer here I can’t outmatch in strength, in physicality so they become either my walls or my stepping stones but I swear the choice of which is purely their own.

I’m almost there but I can hear my name being shouted from behind me, laughter mixed with a few curse laced apologies but I don’t bother turning towards those familiar sounds. I never do. That would be too easy and we have always been anything but. The stepping stones and the walls, they quickly turn into both obstacles and challenges – at least they will as soon as I’ve put them between myself and you – and I can already feel the smirk embedding itself within my features and I have no other choice but to release the laughter that has been building up inside of me as Mr. “Did You Just Touch My Girl” becomes your problem and not mine. His voice grows distant, grows defensive and I know that you’ve taken the bait. I laugh a little harder. You’ve always been predictable.

I’ve spent thirteen minutes with them, laughing and talking about you, talking about me, about us and you’re still not here. I never break eye contact from whomever happens to be addressing the group of us but I’m silently trying to find you in the crowd – confront me about it and I’ll deny ever caring for your whereabouts. It’s a bit harder than I thought it’d be; I suppose I’m not as tall as I had always thought I was. Fernando’s winning his date over with his Pamplona bull run story (hell, he’s winning me over – thank the gods I’ve already been warned off him) as I find Mr. “Did You Just Touch My Girl” grinding against his unfortunate date for the evening. She definitely lost some kind of bet and I know I probably should wedge myself in between them (you know, just to piss him and you off). I would have on any other night… but she’s not you. That matters now. I need to tell you that. That’s why you’re here.  Why I’m here.

I’ve spent twenty-one minutes with them, smiling and swooning over Fernando’s brush with death, laughing as Iker tries to outdo him with a story about the week he spent in Manchester – tries and succeeds – and you’re still not here. He’s animated and his excitement is contagious, arms flailing about as he begins to talk about that damned pelican; he’s distracted, they’re distracted and I… I take advantage of the distraction, skim the crowd with a hidden sense of urgency yet still I can’t seem to find you. Instead, I’m forced to look at a man dressed in disgusting neon drooling over something that must have a pulse as it laughs stupidly at whatever he’s saying; he repulses me and I can tell from here that he’s the kissing type. On any other night I’d be kissing his cheek with my fist because what’s a night out without a little inanity… but he’s not you and that matters now. (Where are you?) I don’t ask them; I bury my disappointment and my worry. I’ll deny having ever felt them if you dare to ask. I know I should have never lost you in the crowd but turning around, turning around would have been too easy and you and I… You and I are anything but.

I’ve spent thirty-two minutes with them and my stomach burns from laughing too hard, my cheeks from all of the smiles they managed to pull from my lips. Fernando’s leaving with his date now, is mumbling out his individual goodbyes and soon after he issues us all /that/ wave with /that/ wink, the ones you have spoken of many a time. I laugh a little more. I smile a little more. I shake my head as if in disbelief but they know that I know and they share my smile, share my laugh. As soon as he disappears from view, we pull out our wallets and place our bets on the two of them without hesitation; I know you’ll scold be if I place my bet anywhere below third (and no matter how many times you try to convince me otherwise, third base should be reserved for oral) but you didn’t see the way she looked at Iker as he told her of Manchester, you’re not here – not yet… So I place fifty on first base simply because a “thank you for making sure I reached home safely” isn’t a thank you without a kiss of some kind. Iker agrees with me. He’s always been your smart friend.

I’m putting my wallet back into my pocket fifty dollars lighter as a woman tripped out on X falls against me, smiling softly beneath the flashing neons and whites, eyes glazed over, skin too warm. She isn’t here and I can’t help but smile at her because neither am I in a sense. Her body is swaying to a rhythm only she can hear, her fists bumping to a bassline mute to anyone who isn’t her and for a moment I envy her – for a moment. A moment is all it takes for me to realise that she’s alone in her world.  I’m shoving her off of me when I feel warm lips over my neck accompanied by the scratchy yet comforting feel of facial hair, fingers threading together with my own. Still, I don’t see you. I don’t need to anymore.

“That guy was going to fist me in the bathroom because of you.” I simply smile as I smell the bourbon and the mint on your breath, as I feel your breathy laughter dancing against my neck. “Let’s get out of here.”

Their response is immediate but their disapproval doesn’t affect you and I suppose it never has. I’ve always been fond of them or at least my idea of them, have always loved them and the way that they seem to love you. I seem incapable of separating the two now. I smile under their attentions, under their affections and echo their “a little longer” because despite that my wants align with yours, you and I are anything but easy and I refuse to be the one who changes that. You manage to work in an excuse; I smile as you tell the group that you have to work in the morning and, before I can be bothered enough to call you out on your lie, Dani is placing a goodbye kiss on your cheek, on mine. Iker’s hugging you and shaking my hand with a wide grin; Isco mimics his actions but adds an “It was nice meeting you.”

I smile because why wouldn’t I smile? I can’t believe you let the bouncer take your keys but I don’t bother to call you weak; if your face serves any purpose beyond something gloriously aesthetic, it’s to tell me that you’ve already conceded yourself to my ideas of you. I turn my attentions on the second bouncer as you attempt to convince the other that you’re sober enough to drive, though I hear him swear that he only took your keys after you downed your fourth Scotch. (I didn’t know you drink Scotch). I’m holding my own keys by the time you blow an unimpressive 0.06 in his breathalyzer and your face… Again, I laugh. (Apparently, the second bouncer thinks I’m cute; he gave me his number and told me that he’d rather take my breath in another way and shrugged off the safety procedure. I’m keeping it in the event of an emergency but it would seem that the 9-1-1 speed dial is reserved for other types of physical emergencies and I can’t think of a way to bypass that. I guess “James” will have to do). You’re not as amused as I am, I can tell by the way you grit your teeth and the fire in your eyes, it’s anything but hidden. I squeeze your bicep and shake my head in disapproval; on any other night, I’d be encouraging you to have a little fun, to have a little fight, but I’m a little too drunk, a little too buzzed and I need you to drive me home… but, to put it ever more simply, simply yet pointedly: I need you. One last look dripping with irritation and a few more moments filled with deep inhales and hasty exhales until you finally smile that smile and pull me outside.

There’s no good music on the radio, there never is at this time in the morning, and you assured me last Christmas that CDs are obsolete so I won’t bother looking for any under your seats but I will huff until you ask me what’s wrong – you never do. You’re too distracted by your thoughts it seems and I’m neither surprised nor offended. While I know that we should have taken my car, I settle for the silence (if the sounds of car horns and speeding cars outside of the window can be called silence). It’s comfortable and you seem to think it is, as well. We’re passing Park Street and I can see you looking at me out of the corner of my eye; you have that stupid grin on your face and I already know what’s coming. “I love you.” I know. I think I might love you, too. “I can’t even begin to tell you how relieved I am that you and the guys just… You all seemed so natural together. It was perfect. I actually don’t think that could have gone any better and that’s…” It’s exactly what you wanted. It’s exactly what you needed. “I just, I love you and I want to be with you and only you. Forever” …but you’re asking me a question. “Forever?”

I don’t hesitate. I don’t need to. I don’t feel as if I need to think, as if I need to dwell. “Forever” …but I’m sorry as soon as the breath carrying the word leaves my body. I’m sorry…

…and (I’m cold).


End file.
